Page 45 of Somewhere Without You

Forty Three

Now

Dear James,

I’ve tried to start this letter so many times, always stopping to ask myself if any of thisevenmakes sense.

Butthenagain, none of thishasmadesense.

Maybethat’s part of what makes itfeelso real.

Sometimes I catch myself saying your name out loud, just to hear how it sounds.

You’ve become part of my days now. Part of my quiet moments, my wandering thoughts.

I see something beautiful, and I wonder if you’d find it beautiful too.

The day I found your photo in the library, something changed.

I told myself itwasnothing.Maybeitwasthe lighting, or the way the quiet echoed throughout the library.

Eitherway, I kept coming back to it and I started to wonder if choosingthatbook from all the otherswasn’ta coincidence.

Honestly, I didn’t want to admit it, but Ifeltsomething too.

My friend Daniellehasthis theorythatmaybeour souls alreadyknoweach other.

Thatwe’ve done this before, in some other life.

I’m notusuallyone to believe in fate or soulmates or anything likethat, but.

. .maybeshe’s right.Maybetime isn’t as straight forward as we think.

Maybeit folds, and in those strange overlapping places, people like us find each other again.

Sincewe’re being honest with each other,there’s something else I need to tell you. Iwasn’tsure if I should, but the guilt of not saying anything feelsworse than telling the truth.

There’s someone from my time.Ortherewas, I should say. Someone I thought I loved. I thought he loved me too.Butit turns out, Iwaswrong and it’s over between us now.

I wish Icouldreach through whatever invisible space lies between us.

I wish Icouldstop you from going, or at least tell you to be careful.

You said you didn’t want toknowwhat the future holds, and I’ll respectthat, but I’ve read enough about the Civil War toknowwhat happens to the men in your situation, and the thought of never hearing from you again hurts more than I thoughtit would.

Still, I’m holding onto hope. I have to.Becauseif all of this. . . our letters, this weird connection,wasjustfor you to vanish,thenwhat would have been the point? Why would fate go through the trouble of bringing us back together, only to take you away again?

So write to me when you come back. Not if, but when.Becausewhatever this is, it matters. Ifeelthatin my bones. I believe we’veknowneach other before.AndI believe we’ll find each other again.

Yours always, Emily

I spent three days in bed, tossing and turning between anger, heartbreak, and self loathing.Forthree days, I ignored Logan’s calls.AndI didn’t move when he came pounding on the front door, pleading for a chance to explain.

Explain what,exactly?

Explain how he lied to me? How Iunknowinglyhelped him cheat—with the one person who made my lifejustas miserable as Jackson ever did?

How do you explainthatkind of betrayal to someone you claim to love?

Thatpart cut the deepest.

I’ddriven straight home from the hardware storethatday, leaving Winston with Dani and the bags of dog food in her Jeep. So when someone knocked on my door a few hours later, I assumed itwasLogan.

“Go away,”I shouted through clenched teeth.

“I’dlove to,”came the reply,“but I kind of need my keys first.”

My angerimmediatelygave way to shame.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”she asked, concern washing over her face the moment I opened the door.

I collapsed into her arms, sobbing like a child as I told her everything.

“You want me to kick his ass?”she said, trying to be funny, but it didn’t work. Another cry tore from my throat.

She offered to take Winston for a few days, to give me space, but I declined. Hewasall Ihadleft.

Asif Iwasn’talready drowning, the silence from James made it worse. Not a single letter arrived through the satchel. On the fourth day, hollowed out from crying, Ifinallydragged myself out of bed, got dressed, and managed to make myself something to eat.

I stood in the kitchen, staringblanklyat nothing, when my eyes caught on Gran’s urn.I’dmovedit to the mantel, where it now sat untouched beside her photo.

That’s when the guilt hit me.

I’dbeen back fornearlya month and stillhadn’thonoredher final wish.

I wandered over to the kitchen window, my gaze landing on the garden. Whathadonce been a peaceful refugewasnow a wild, tangled mess. Weeds climbed through the broken fence, its white paint now cracked and flaking. Several boards leaned with rot, warped and ready to fall.

My chest tightened.

Gran’s gardenhadonce been her pride—a burst of life and color. Now, itwasa graveyard of everything she loved.

Howhadit gotten this bad?

Wasit my fault? Katherine’s?Hadour leavingfeltlike abandonment to her?Had she’dsimplygiven up when we left, allowing the garden to mirror the emptiness she must havefelt?

With a sudden urge of purpose I forced myself outside. Thiswasn’tjustabout the garden anymore. Itwasabout healing. About making something whole again.

The bags of soil and fertilizer Logan and Ihadboughtdays ago still sat on the porch, unopened. The potted plantswe’dpickedout togetherwerebeginning to wilt, now victims of my selfishness.

Not anymore.

I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed the first bag of soil, dragging it toward the garden beds at the back of the house.

The earthwasdry and cracked beneath my shoes, buttherewasstill life underneath—Icouldfeelit.

The sunhadfinallybroken through the cloudsthathadhungheavy the last few days, warming my shoulders as I worked.

With each weed I pulled, each thorn I clipped back, itwaslike Iwascutting through the ache inside me. The grief didn’t vanish—but for the first time, ithadsomewhere to go.

I dug my hands into the soil, bringing them away with dirt packed beneath my nails, and for the first time in days, I smiled. Gran used to saythatdirtwasgoodfor the soul—and shewasright.

Icouldalmost picture herthere, watching from the porch with a cup of tea in her hands, and a quiet smirk curling at the edge of her mouth.

Not saying anything.Justnodding. Winston let out a soft bark beside me, tail wagging as if hecouldsense her too.

Her unseen presence must have given him a jolt of energy, because moments later he took off running into the tall grass, chasing something only hecouldsee.

The potted plantswerestruggling, but not gone. A little water, a little care, and they might make it. I planted themgently, giving each one a place in the bedsthatused to overflow with color. Itwasn’tmuch yet, but itwasa start.

I turned to the fence and began tearing the boards loose with my hands. Some out of the lingering frustration still burning from Logan, others from a strength Ihadn’tfeltin a long time.

The day slipped by in a blur, and before Iknewit, the sunwasmelting into the horizon, casting a golden glow across the yard. Somewhere in the distance, Winston barkedexcitedly.Maybehe’dfoundsomething.Ormaybehejustfeltgoodrunning free.

I knelt to place the buddleia bush in the soil, my fingersgentlypressing its roots into the earth, when a rough voice snuck up behind me.

“Hey, Emily. . .”

My blood turned to ice. A chill swept down my spine, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I turnedslowly, hoping for a ghost.Butwhat Isawfrightened me more.

Standingthere, hands in his pockets, wearingthatsame, self-assured grin. . .wasJackson.